


Fascinating New Thing

by heartsewnsleeve



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsewnsleeve/pseuds/heartsewnsleeve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You think she's this little stupid mouse, but she's not. Molly Hooper is a sweet and smart girl who doesn't deserve to waste her life defending and being in love with a prick like you!"</p><p>(Set place after Season 1 before Season 2 has begun)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was nearly time for Molly Hooper to leave. She had been awake since 5:30AM due to working an extra shift because the other pathologist was out with the flu. It was now nearly 8PM. She was on the brink of tumbling over from exhaustion. She would have passed out earlier if it weren't for the five cups of caffeine she had inhaled throughout the day. At the exact moment she was getting ready to lock the doors and grab her coat, the infamous Sherlock Holmes, walked through the doors. Molly went from slightly faintish and tired to flustered at seeing him approach. As always, Doctor Watson was trailing behind him.

"I'm going to need a breadknife." Sherlock didn't ask nor subtly hint at his need. Instead he bluntly stated it.  _Much like he did all of the time._

"I-I... what do you need a breadknife for?" Molly asked. Breadknifes, were used for thin slices during autopsies. Despite how smart Sherlock was, he wasn't a pathologist. Molly  _was_.

"I want to test a theory." His eyes blinked and he spoke as if he were being annoyed by her speaking. Molly, was aware of how his tone sounded. She never doubted that she annoyed him. Yet for some reason, she was still undeniably in love with him.

"But, but... Sherlock, I just put them all away." It was completely true. Molly, had spent nearly 4 hours going through all of her scalpels and saws. Between doing that and the extra shift; Molly was beyond the term " _beat down_ ".

He sighed lightly, and walked towards her. He was now so close that he was towering over her petite frame. He blinked his eyes lightly at her.

"Molly, please? It's incredibly important and you're the only person who can help me." Her eyes averted his a bit, and backed up from him.

"I'm so tired... and if I have to clean up, and you don-," Sherlock cut her off and slightly grazed her arm. He rested his hand lightly near hers for a few seconds. Molly looked like she was on the near edge of a faint spell.

"Please Molly? For me? Can you do this for me?" He grinned slightly at her. She took a breathe and her eyeballs widened.

"O-okay, Sherlock. Give me a minute." And as quickly as that, Molly Hooper was off looking for as many breadknifes that she could find. Once she was gone, his grin disappeared and he went back to reading the case file as if nothing had happened.

All the while, John Watson looked like he wanted to stab Sherlock with a breadknife.

* * *

 

**5 HOURS LATER**

"That was wrong mate. Bloody hell, it was wrong as wrong as can be." John Watson was a man of good strong character. He firmly believed in right and wrong. He felt that he slowly was falling in the gray area due to all the time that he spent with Sherlock.

Usually he was immune to Sherlock being an arse. But Sherlock crossed the boundaries. John had always seen Molly like she was a little girl.

It wasn't because of her age; since she she was only a slight few years younger. She might've been 27 or even 28. Yet despite that, John had always viewed her as innocent and fragile like a small girl. Molly wouldn't harm a fly. If anything she'd probably cry if she tried to squat it. Molly had a big warm heart. John was sick of Sherlock taking advantage of it.

"What?" Sherlock muttered while he peered through a microscope. He had no time for  _dilly dallies_. He was on an extremely important case. John's nonsensical topic, whatever it may be, could wait for later.

"You know what you did there. Don't play stupid with me. I'm not a rocket scientist like you, but I'm not a fool."

Sherlock refrained from noting that he was not a rocket scientist, and he differed on John's opinion that he wasn't a fool. Sherlock had learnt that silence was the best way to react to John's angriness.  _More acutely_ : his blackened eye had helped him learn that.

"Manipulating Molly like what you just did. Like you do all the bloody time. All that girl does for you and... you treat her like a public loo!"

"Excuse me?" Sherlock piqued back. He stopped looking at the microscope and turned to actually look at him. This slightly unnerved John. Sherlock had never paid attention to him when John was pointing out why Sherlock was being an arse. It also made John feel successful as if he had finally accomplished something with Smarty Sir Rock Head.

"You heard me. You went and manipulated her. That was doggish whether you want to admit or not."

"I did not manipulate her." Sherlock responded with a viper like tone that one would use if they were accused of murder. This was also unnerving to John. The entire subject was beginning to become less black and white, and more gray. This increased John's anger. He didn't like those little gray areas when it came to right and wrong. He also knew when he was right, like he was at the current moment.

"What do you call it then?" He responded with an annoyed gleaming in his eyes. "You go round' telling her mouth is too small. Except once you need something, you treat her like royalty. Why is  _that_  Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his mouth slightly, but shut it quickly. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes did not have an answer. John had noted this victory, and continued on speaking.

"She finally tries to find a guy who thinks she's pretty and nice, and you tell her he's gay. But not only that, she finds out he's a psychopath. Not the type of rubbish sociopath you say you are, but a  _real_  psychopath. Do you lay off? Nope. Do you even ask how she is? No. Even though she's the always the first person to help you or defend you."

Sherlock stayed silent once again, but John had seen the curiosity in his eyes when he said that Molly defended him.

"Oh? When did she defend you? How about two weeks ago when she told Sally Donovan that if she called you a freak again that Molly would show her how well her experience with the dead could be handy?"

Sherlock eyes gleamed with surprise and something that John couldn't decipher.

"Or when she said that nobody in her lab was allowed to speak a word against Sherlock Holmes. She even threatened to fire or write em' up! You think she's this little stupid mouse, but she's not. Molly Hooper is a sweet and smart girl who doesn't deserve to waste her life defending and being in love with a prick like you!"

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock lit a cigarette as he walked down the street. It was the first time he had smoked in months. He hadn't smoked since learning that Moriarty was in fact Jim from IT who had deceived not only Molly, but Sherlock himself. He had not given it much thought, but now he was unable to stop thinking of Jim, Moriarty, John... or most importantly,  _Molly_.

He had stormed out silently after John's speech. Once again, Sherlock was without a response or answer. The most logical action was to leave the entire situation.

Surprisingly, John did not stop him. He did not yell for Sherlock to stay put nor he did go to hit Sherlock. He simply gave him a look of pure loathing and anger as Sherlock brushed quickly by him to walk out the lab doors.

Now it had been nearly forty five minutes, and Sherlock was still as perplexed and confused as earlier. The three cigarettes he had smoked hadn't been able to calm what he was feeling. He had no reasoning, _logically speaking of course_ , as to why he could not respond to John. He also could not understand why he had this feeling in the pit of his stomach that made him want to vomit.

He deduced what his body was telling him after a few more puffs of his cigarette. He was experiencing guilt. Guilt was not a foreign concept to Sherlock, despite what people thought of him. He had and did in fact feel guilt.

He had felt guilt when he and Mycroft would make Mummy cry _(but it was always more Mycroft's fault_ ) or when he called John "a living epitome of vast and unrequited stupidity who had skipped necessary evolutionary genes" ( _except that guilt subsided after his eye was blackened)_.

But this was not _that_ type of guilt.

He felt sick from the top of his body to the very bottom of it. He felt as if he done something that he would never be forgiven for.

Most of all, he felt misunderstood because he was not manipulating Molly. He did not manipulate Molly. He could not understand why John would think such a thing of him. He was John's bestfriend, after _all_.

He was not bad. He was not Jim. He was _not_ evil. He would never manipulate Molly. No, _never_. He would never manipulate Molly.

Sherlock let the thoughts of Molly fill his head. He had always avoided thinking of Molly for so many reasons. Reasons that Sherlock had realized were illogical. Sherlock listened to his sense of logic, the way that some people listened to their heart.

Yet, he didn't always follow that logic despite how much he tried. These exceptions only occurred when it applied to Molly, which substantially frustrated him.

Hence him lighting a fourth cigarette and glaring at every passerby that he saw as he walked down the bleak London street.

Another example was a few months ago when he had to lay on his bed with 4 nicotine patches after learning of what Moriarty had done to Molly. He was unable to sleep that night or many other nights after that. Every time he closed his eyes, his brain would replay the same information to him.

Jim had kissed Molly. Moriarty had kissed Molly. Moriarty had kissed Molly. Moriarty could have killed Molly. He easily could have killed, raped, tortured or done anything he wanted to Molly.

These thoughts ran over and over again in Sherlock's brain like a record stuck on repeat. These cruel thoughts were never ending. Nicotine patches, cigarettes, and a few doses of scotch and brandy could not erase them.

And stupidly short John had thought that Sherlock didn't care. What sheer nonsense. Sherlock let this realization simmer some more before reacting fully to it.

How could he think that Sherlock didn't care about Molly? That was simply utterly ridiculous. The more that Sherlock played introspective on his feelings toward her, the more the queasiness in his stomach grew stronger.

He took another along puff as he lost himself to his unpleasant and unfeasible thoughts once again.

Sherlock was aware that he wasn't always lovable or kind in his actions towards Molly. However, he did have a completely tenable reasoning for his behavior towards her.

In short: He simply didn't know how to treat Molly. A part of him was irked by her over-emotional face, but a bigger part wanted to inquire of how those lips, which weren't too small if he were being honest, felt against his.

Sherlock felt another spell of queasiness as he let this truth come to surface. He was not only a genius at deducing but a genius at masquerading himself.

He had never let anyone know his feelings.

He never let Mycroft know how much he loved him. He never let John know that he was as loyal to him as John was to him. And most of all, he would never let Molly know that he was as flustered by her as she was by him.

Feelings were **fatuous**. Especially, feelings of a sexual nature, or _roman-;_ he could not let the word finish formulating in his mind. It made him feel almost vulnerable, which was something that Sherlock Holmes never be.

If he had learned anything from being the younger brother of Mycroft Holmes, it was that feelings were fruitless and useless things. Specifically, any feelings that weren't platonic were stupid, idle and would only cause harm. And really, platonic feelings weren't very logical or useful either.

Sherlock had let his guard slip in finding friendship and brotherly love (which he was unaware actually existed) in the form of John Watson.

John, despite his irrational and confusing nature at times, understood this. Sherlock had found solace in John. He understood why Sherlock felt uncomfortable in emotional situations, or why Sherlock would sooner stab himself in the eye than mutter a phrase of love. John understood perfectly. He also understood things which Sherlock did not or could not understand. They were quite perfect allies. Hence, why John was his best friend.

Sherlock never was required to weaken himself or to speak of any sentimental phrases. It was a throughly compatible match. Especially, because John was good at fetching things.

 _But_... Sherlock did not have this compatibility with Molly. He had to pretend that her bum wasn't aesthetically pleasing, he had to appear if he didn't take tabs on if she was dating anybody (thankfully, she never was), and he had to appear that he did not care.

Now if John were aware of all these things, he would certainly have never said that Sherlock "manipulated" Molly. If anything, Sherlock was manipulated by the feelings that Molly produced on him.

But, you weren't supposed to enjoy manipulated feelings. He enjoyed the slight stinging sensation that Molly made him experience.

And if he were being entirely truthful on the matter, he wholly adored knowing that he produced Molly to behave like she did. He boasted in the fact that he made her emotions so ruffled and sometimes he took her breathe away (quite literally in fact).

He enjoyed knowing that she stood up to Sally Donovan whom he detested more than brussels sprouts and cleaning. He was fascinated by the articles that she submitted to "British Journal of Clinical Pathology" and the way she twisted her words in her paragraphs so cleverly.

Molly did have her annoying quirks though.

Such as she was unable to sound as physically intelligent as she was internally and on paper. Her laugh sounded like an awkward teenager's. She wore pants that hid her quite attractively plush bum. Her clothing in general was extremely annoying because it kept Sherlock from being able to take in her body. She also wasn't quite as talented at fetching things like John was.

The most undeniably annoying thing about Molly Hooper was how she made him feel. There was no denying _this_.

It was not until Sherlock looked up that he realized where he had walked to. He was standing directly in front of Molly Hooper's flat building.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly Hooper was  _positively_  exhausted. She had felt so physically drained that she had skipped taking the train home. She always avoided taxis unless necessary because they were overpriced. Plus, the interior usually reeked of unpleasant things that made her want to cringe.

She had spent thirty five minutes in traffic with her nose wrinkled up while yawning. She also endured listening to an obnoxious talk show. It hurt her head worse than the potent stale cigarette smell.

Once she was home, she jumped in the shower. She usually sung corny love songs while pretending she had a great voice ( _she was aware that she didn't_ ) during her showers. However, today was not one of  _those_  days. She barely spent 5 minutes bathing. She wanted to be in and out as soon as possible.

Afterwards, she changed into her rattiest and most comfortable pair of pajamas. They were dark pink flannel pajamas with cats and hearts etched on them. They had seen better days, but Molly was unable to part with them. Then she slipped her baby pink polished toes ( _she had painted them a few days ago while watching "Connie Price"_ ) into her favorite pair of fuzzy blue slippers.

It was  _almost_  time for bed, thankfully. But first she needed to eat dinner and watch some horrible telly. She had gotten used to this type of schedule. She'd come home, get a shower, change, make herself dinner and wonder what Sherlock meant when he said "hello" or "goodbye" to her.

She walked into her flat's kitchen to pull out the chicken that she had made the night before. That was one of the perks of living and being alone. Whenever she made dinner, she always had leftovers to enjoy. However, the fact that she had leftovers was a reminder of how very alone she was.

She sighed as she took the lip off the plastic container.

Molly preferred to ignore this lonely feeling whenever it swept into her thoughts. It wasn't always easy. Like when she saw a couple walking by holding hands, and she wanted to cry because she'd never have that. Deep down, she was afraid that she'd be one of those old woman eating dinner alone at a restaurant that everyone pitied. Molly most certainly did not want to be that woman.

A part of her was afraid that she already was.

Except she wasn't entirely alone. She did have Toby. She had her Mum even though she lived about 5 hours away and sometimes forgot that Molly existed. She had her first cousin Richard, who called her quite frequently to chit chat, and visited her once or twice a year. She even had her old university dorm mate, Anna, that she went out to lunch with whenever Anna was in town.

But all those people didn't make feel Molly feel any less lonely if she were being completely honest with herself. If anything, they made it worse. None of them understood Molly. Well at least, the  _real_  Molly; not the one who had a penchant for silly colors and cats.

She had always surprised people with her profession as a pathologist.

But really, it wasn't  _that_  surprising.

Molly, had always identified with the dead. They were just innocent people that lost their voices and would never get them back. Some of those people's stories, whether if they were murdered brutally or saved someone's life would never be told. That was why Molly felt so strongly about them.

Those lives mattered to her. She liked to think that she mattered to them too... even though they were dead.

It was these connections to her patients that made Molly feel even more alone. She was the epitome of a freak. She was a blue fuzzy slipper footed freak whose only boyfriend was a psychopath.

As he passed Molly's mind, she felt a stab in her stomach. The same type of jolt she experienced whenever she went to lie or felt if she hurt someone's feelings.

She had never let anyone know but Jim was her first. No, no... not  _that_  first. Jim was her first boyfriend. That's right. Molly Hooper was such a freak, specifically a social freak, that she was unable to secure a boyfriend until she was 27 years old. She had come to the realization that she got more and more pathetic by each and every day.

Her first boyfriend wasn't named Jim at all, but a psychopath pretending to be Jim. The saddest part was that when she dated him, it was the first time that she ever felt pretty. Yes,  _pretty_. Molly with the slightly crooked ears, straggly hair and nonexistent hips felt pretty.

She had actually enjoyed what she saw in the mirror after spending time with him. He made her feel good about herself. He made her feel like somebody saw something more to her than the general view that she was a stupidly silly ugly wallflower.

Molly's perception of herself was worsened ever since she had discovered the truth about "Jim". She had never let anyone know how horrible it felt. All those nice things that he had said were false. They were lies and the saddest part that she knew it all along. Why would such an incredibly handsome man find her pretty? She was just lonely ugly Molly who ate leftovers in ratty PJs every night.

She really tried to feel better herself. _Really, she did._ Except it was hard to feel nice about yourself when you had hurtful Sherlock who was always ready to pinpoint flaws. Molly was now painfully aware that her lips were too small, her breasts too small, that her arches were oddly high, and that her voice resembled a strange cartoon character's.

Her personal favorite Sherlock remark was that her clothing should be burnt and annihilated from existence because of how horrible every article of it was.

Molly laughed as these thoughts crossed her mind. He sounded so downright mean in her mind. Any rational person would say that Sherlock was incapable of love in general. They would most definitely agree that if Sherlock were to fall in love that it would never be with Molly Hooper.

She really didn't digress on that. She was just plain jane Molly with no bum. While he was this beautiful  _(for a lack of a manly word)_  man with the biggest intellect that she ever saw. She blushed as the tingles that he caused whenever she saw him or thought of him ran through her body.

She remembered once wondering why she was so desperately in love with Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't because he was utterly delicious  _(she blushed once again_ ), or the fact that he was unnaturally blunt. No, none of that was why she loved Sherlock. It wasn't his fame, his good looks, his intellect, or any of that.

It had absolutely nothing to do with his exterior. It was his interior; it was those faint glimpses of his heart that she could sometimes see. Those glimpses were way she adored him so much.

It was that she saw kindness in those eyes of his. It was that she saw innocence sparkling in his thoughts and words on rare occasions. It was that she saw through his facade of indifference. She saw and felt his need and desire for humanity. It was that she could see love shimmering his eyes, though he'd deny to his grave. It was that saw him at his absolute best and absolute worst. It was that he called himself a sociopath despite the fact he spent his life saving other lives.

The main reasoning was awfully foolishly... at least _she_ thought so.

Whenever she talked or simply sat near him, Molly didn't feel alone. It made her sound like some god awful fictional character in a bad romance novel. But it was  _completely_ true. That loneliness never crept into her thoughts or chest when she was in his presence.

When she was near him, she didn't feel like a freak. Or alone. Or misunderstood. She felt at peace. She felt complete in a really odd way. Like she had stumbled upon a missing piece of a puzzle. Except, the puzzle was her heart.

And that was why she was head over heels in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Her microwave beeping broke her out of her thoughts. She headed to the living room after placing her meal on a plate. This is what Molly's night looked like every day basically. Her, the telly, left-overs, and Toby resting next to her.

Sometimes, she wished she had her own Watson. A best friend or even an acquaintance. Just someone or anybody to confide in. Honestly, she wanted more than that.

She wanted someone to be in love with her as much as she was with them. She often wished she had someone to hold her hand and lay down next to her every night. She just wanted someone to think she was smart, funny, sweet and maybe  _even_  beautiful.

That was why she fell so naively in Jim's arms. He made her feel all those things. All the things that she'd never hear from any man; especially not from Sherlock. Jim made her feel nice. He made her feel like she wasn't just useful or convenient.

She didn't ever honestly except Sherlock to fall in love with her one day. Molly, was under the impression that if anything, he'd be with her for convenience. The same way that her lab was convenient. She hated acknowledging this to herself.

Even if she wasn't pretty, she at least deserved to be loved like an actual human being. But, her love for Sherlock made her irrational and silly like a child. Sherlock, made her stutter and do silly things such as awe and giggle uncontrollably. His words, his actions... his _mere_ presence made Molly lose all ounces of control.

It was this effect of his that made Molly cling to him. It was the times that she swore that he was staring at her or the tingles he constantly produced within her body that made her stay in love with him. It was silly of course, but she couldn't stop it.

Nobody made her feel like Sherlock did. He was _slightly_ mental... but she had constant discussions with her cat, so her mental state wasn't much better. She laughed once again as the thought went through her mind.

Suddenly, there was a knock at her door. This shook Molly from all her thoughts. It was probably Mr. Graham, the oldest tenant in the building, from down the hall. He was constantly running out of napkins and soap. If he weren't so nice and cute, Molly would've sent him a bill for all the things that he borrowed.

Before, she could even get up from the couch, her door opened. She would've screamed if she didn't instantly recognize the figurine that was walking through her doorway.

"I was tired of waiting," Sherlock muttered with a look of disdain at her obvious lack of quickness. He looked at her oddly for a moment and paused. She blinked without saying a word. "Hello, Molly."

Her only response was to cross her arms across her chest because she was now extremely aware that Sherlock was looking at her when she had no bra on, had makeup on, and was wearing terribly ugly pajamas. Molly's life just seemed to get worse and worse.

It also dawned on her that it was going to a be a  _very_  long night. 


	4. Chapter 4

She crossed her arms tighter around her body. She felt beyond uncomfortable. He, on the other hand, looked perfectly composed. As if appearing at her flat in the middle of the night was a completely normal and casual event.

His scarf was wrapped around his neck in a neatly way and his coat fit him perfectly. There wasn't even a scoff on his overly expensive shoes. She resisted from sticking out her tongue at him.

_Did he always have to be so perfect looking? Constantly?_

Molly, wanted to kick herself. Out of all the days to wear her most hideous pajamas, she had to choose them today? She had never imagined, not in the slightest, that Sherlock would one day randomly appear at her flat.

She had a lot of dreams about Sherlock suddenly appearing in the nighttime at her flat, but they usually lead  _to..._  Molly, shook away her thought before she started blushing deeply, and Sherlock deciphered her brain like a mindreader.

Instead, she redirected her mind to the present. It was like one of those nightmare type of thoughts you think about before delivering a big speech. Actually, this scenario was like Molly's life everyday. Something terribly embarrassing  _almost always_  happened whenever Sherlock appeared. It was bad enough that the love of her life was a thousand times better looking. _But_ , Molly also had to deal with embarrassing herself on a daily basis. She was still waiting for the day that she got her period in front of him. She resisted from laughing at the idea.

"How did you get in?" She piqued. Molly, had been wondering that since he had walked through her doorway about 10 seconds ago. She was annoyed by this, but things like this were so common with him that it didn't fluster her anymore. She thought about telling him that he couldn't just barge in her flat, especially at hours like these, but he looked slightly... _off_. She sensed something quite wasn't right. There was a worn look on his face. It was nearly undetectable, but Molly noticed it.

That little sense of lostness that was etched on his face was enough to deviate Molly's anger. She knew better than to ask if he were okay, or why he would appear so late at night. When it came to emotions or feelings at all, Sherlock did not react. Before she could think anymore about it, the look was gone.

"First, I twisted the handle, then lastly, I entered through the door. Rather impressive of me, if I must say." His eyes were glinting with mischievousness. The usual type of mischievousness that played in his eyes whenever Sherlock used his favorite language of choice: **sarcasm**.

Molly was used to sarcasm, specifically Sherlock's sarcasm. However, it was past midnight. She had been working since 5. She had refrained from yelling at him for barging in her flat at this ungodly hour. She desperately wanted to eat her chicken, but was too startled from his sudden appearance and tired to finish eating at this point. She looked like bloody hell while the man that she was in love looked like he was dressed for the red carpet was standing in front of her..

Molly Hooper was _definitely not_ in the mood for sarcasm tonight. Her eyes must've slightly blazed her agitation, because Sherlock made a strange look. The type of look that he was accustomed to giving John before John threatened to beat Sherlock with his cane when they bickered like childish brothers.

"You know I meant how you got into my flat." Molly said. She didn't sound annoyed when she spoke, but she didn't look too bemused by his sarcasm. He looked lost once again, and Molly felt slightly guilty for wanting to poke him hard in his side. Yet once again, it was gone. She had a feeling that it wouldn't return again. His display of anything besides nonchalance was a rarity.

Molly instead began to wonder how he managed to get through those locks. The locks were supposedly indestructible. She was guaranteed that no criminal would ever be able to pick them or get in. The man even showed Molly how advanced and secure they were at the store. Some old CIA agent had invented them apparently. That's what the owner at the security store had said. For the price she paid, they should be secure and indestructible. Of course, Sherlock  _could_. If anyone could pick or break such a secure lock, it  _would_ be him.

He was partly the reason why she had spent two paychecks worth on those locks. One of the downsides of being Sherlock Holme's associate was the amount of people that wanted to kill him. She began thinking of the main reason why she splurged on such expensive locks. Molly, felt a twinge of illness in her stomach.

She had them changed immediately after the "Jim" incident.

She was thankful that she never invited Jim to her flat. She'd never be able to live with herself if he had spent the nigh like he had subtly proposed. If it weren't for Sherlock texting her that night saying that he needed her immediately, she might've given in. Or maybe she wouldn't have. Just thinking about it made her want to hurl numerous times which is what she done after finding out the truth about him.

Even if he didn't spend the night, the idea of him being in her flat was terrifying. The fear she had of him would be infinitely worse than it already was. After finding out the truth about him, she considered investing in a handgun. Except she didn't like guns and she didn't fully trust her coordination; those two traits made Molly aware that she was unideal for ownership of a gun. Not to mention that getting a gun license in London took more work than buying a flat.

She didn't have super human strength or reflexes, but she was  _not_  a victim. She would  _never_ be a victim. So she spent money on an expensive heavy duty lock and an expensive alarm system. Thinking of her alarm system made her realize that she had forgotten to turn it on. Though, it sent slight frightened tingles through her body for forgetting, she was glad that she didn't. All she would need to do is explain to an officer why her coworker  _(was Sherlock a coworker?)_  was showing up at her flat at 1'AM without her knowledge. And knowing him, he'd probably make a great big spectacle about it, and insult the officer's intelligence. _Or something like that._

Molly, was broken out of her thoughts, by his voice.

"I used the key you gave me," Sherlock said as he glanced throughout her living room. He was taking in everything. She could tell by the way that his eyes slightly flickered back and forth. It was the subtlest motion. If she hadn't known and observed for him for so long, it'd be undetectable. "I excepted far more frill furniture and decoration. And childishly colored walls, as well."

She wasn't sure if that was an insult or compliment about her flat. With Sherlock, you could never tell sometimes. Molly had learned a few things about dealing with Sherlock over the years. If you weren't sure how to respond, it was better to just ignore it altogether. Her flat's interior didn't matter to her. Most of Molly's furniture was bought at some store in Maidenhead. It wasn't overly chic, but it was nice looking and durable. The rest was inherited from her father's passing and given to her by family members over the years.

" _Oh_. I had forgotten about that," The image of Sherlock strolling through her door at 1'AM had made her forget that she had given him a key. Once she had gotten new locks, she had given Sherlock a key " _just incase_ ". He had looked at her funny, but slipped it into his coat pocket nonetheless. Molly, did not tell him that she had given him a key because she feared that she may end up dead. Or _worse_. "I think the lack of sleep is getting to me. I'm starting to feel as dead as my patients."

He simply raised his eyebrow at her. She was sure that he was groaning internally at her failed attempt of a joke. She knew she wasn't good at jokes. But it seemed _far_ wittier in her head. He opened his mouth slightly to respond sarcastically, _no doubt_ , but was distracted by the sight of her bookshelves which were lined behind him. He turned around to inspect them closer.

His entire demeanor instantly changed. His eyes reminded her of a child as they ran up and down her bookshelf. Sherlock was always more comfortable with written words instead of spoken. She always wondered what he'd do without text messaging. He'd probably go around with a notepad and pen like someone who got their tonsils out.

"Would you like, some, _erm_ , tea?" Molly asked. She quickly snatched the blanket next to her that was laying on her couch and wrapped herself with it. She felt uncomfortable enough with Sherlock when she was wearing 5 odd layers. The idea of wearing only a thin flannel top with missing buttons near him made her want to faint.

Sherlock stared a bit too long at her as she raised her arms to wrap herself with the blanket. At least, _she thought_ he did. She was surely imagining it, but his eyes seemed to grow with disdain when she accomplished wrapping it firmly around her. She shook her head in attempt to rid her foolish thoughts out of her head. Sometimes, very rarely albeit, Molly would feel like Sherlock was staring at her in a way that made her grow goosebumps. But, instead of doting upon it, she wrapped her blanket tighter around her.

"Yes." He was turned with his back to her. He was focusing his eyes and entire attention at her books. She knew that was what calmed him. The way that wrapping herself in a terribly ugly wool blanket to keep her body covered soothed her nerves.

Sherlock was silently taking in every novel's title. The way she had aligned them, what novels were dogeared and which looked oddly untouched. Which books she had recently touched, and which ones had been left untouched since their first and only reading. He was deducing which book had damp marks upon it because that would prove it was the book that she most recently read. "Don't forget the honey...  _please_."

Molly's eyeballs widened at the word "please". She was thankful that he was facing opposite ways. She had never heard Sherlock use the term please willingly unless he was manipulating strangers or he was afraid of being slapped in the eye by John. She closed her eyes for a second then bit her lip anxiously.

 _What does he want?_  Molly didn't want to go to the lab to assist him. She was far too tired. She was far too tired for a scheme. She wasn't in the mood to watch him beat dead bodies or test his crazy chemical concoctions on a rotted corpse. She resolved to stop thinking of it any longer and focused her attention on making some tea.

She was aware that she didn't have many skills perfected ( _mainly any relating to physical coordination_ ), but her tea was perfect. Almost as good as her coffee. She had a medical degree and a degree in making perfectly delicious tea and coffee.

"I'll go make some now." She said and walked away to the kitchen. He stay entranced by her books until he heard Molly's footsteps move in the direction of her kitchen. He quietly breathed a sigh of relief. He sat down in the olden and chipped wooden rocker that was situated next to the telly. Her telly was still on, but the volume was inaudible.

He glanced quickly to see what she was watching. It was some stupid reality television show. The type that he knew that John watched with his girlfriend. At the mental image of John's girlfriend, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

He could perfectly watch Molly from the rocker without her noticing. He felt completely at ease upon discovering this. She slowly slipped off the blanket around her. He assumed that she thought that he couldn't see her from the living room. He wondered why Molly had decided to wrap herself in such a hideous blanket.

As _always_ , Molly Hooper was confusing him. There was no feeling that Sherlock Holmes hated more than being confused. And, she _constantly_ confused him much to his extreme agitation. Slowly, his confusion morphed into something else. The feeling of primitive delightfulness took over. It was an unusual feeling, but it wasn't disdainful or hateful. He felt quite... _peculiar_  but he enjoyed this feeling. It made him feel as if he unveiled an important clue. It was like the reaction between an electron and proton. Yes, yes, exactly like that.

His eyes intently watched her as she breathed in and out and as she bent to reach for the sugar.

He was completely enthralled by his ability to intake Molly's body. The pajamas were hideous and ill fitted granted  _(some things were impossible to change. Molly's sense of fashion style was one of them)_ , but he could not help but notice how appealing her body was. He slowly counted the missing buttons. He couldn't see any gaps between them, but he did not mind.

He would insist she never wear undergarments but than other men would take notice of her.

Sherlock surely did _not_ have time that. Molly was not theirs to ogle at. He did not spend too much thought on the notion that Molly was not _his either_.

He had began formulating a cons and pros list about Molly in his mind when he was walking. He wasn't sure what the meaning of it was, but it soothed him. Lists always soothed Sherlock. It was the only way that he could put some organization to the never ending thoughts and images that ran throughout his mind 24/7. The little lists he created were the equivalent of folders in a filing cabinet.

"I don't have any honey," Molly yelled to Sherlock. He groaned and his eyes narrowed with agitation. He had another con to his list.  _Molly Hooper does not have honey._ Not only she did not fetch things as well John, but she also did not stock honey. Rather annoying habits,  _yes_ , but also easily fixable. _Thankfully_.

"Tea without honey is quite wretched," He made an aggravated sound once again. "I suppose sugar and milk will do just fine. You really should invest in some honey."

He was almost positive that Molly had muttered something under her breath, but he was unable to certify so. He could hear her opening her silverware drawer. He added a new pro to his mental list. _Molly Hooper moved quite fast when making tea._ He always had to wait at least ten minutes when John made tea. John, just seemed to move  _slow_. He wasn't sure if John did it to annoy him or simply because he was just a person who moved...  _very_  slow.

While he was lost in his own mind, Molly appeared in front of him. She had traded in her ugly old blanket for a worn looking bathrobe that was fastened around her body. It was light pink. If it wasn't so washed out, it'd be quite pretty. He wanted to smirk. The prettiest piece of attire that Molly owned was a bathrobe. Except, he didn't want to smirk. He just wanted to smile, because in an odd way, it made him want to laugh.

_Con: Molly Hooper makes me feel like I am inebriated when I begin thinking about her because I cannot think properly nor are my feelings logical._

_Pro: I enjoy this maddening feeling and thought process, very much so._

"So... were you in the neighborhood? It's awfully late..." Molly asked. Her hazel eyes were animated with exhaustion. They were rimmed red. She blew lightly on her tea and her hands were shaking lightly as she held her mug.

He did not know how to respond. He did not _want_ to respond. He had already let his defense down when he had acknowledged that he entered with her key. That lead to the knowledge that he carried said key. It was an entirely frustrating matter because he did not like this vulnerability. He wanted to be gone from it. He didn't want Molly Hooper to know anything about him. He didn't want her squeaky mouse like voice inside his mind constantly.

But instead of being vindictive or before he could devise a lie, the truth slipped from his lips.

"I wanted to see you." He did not know why he said it. He felt flustered that he said something like that. But, it was refreshing. It was like walking barefoot in the grass. It seemed utterly disgusting at first, but it felt nice in an odd way. That's how Sherlock felt. Like, he had taken off his shoes and ran through the fields.

"You're always welcome to visit." Molly responded. Her lips upturning in a smile, but confusion clearly marked on her face. Her hands began to shake a little harder and she bit her lips. Her self consciousness and awkwardness was beyond evident. But, she still looked so happy. He had somehow made her happy. She didn't look worried and she wasn't giving him a funny look. The type of look that Sherlock was _accustomed_ to.

That was why Sherlock enjoyed her so much. Even when she was confused by his actions, she accepted them. She never judged him. He never felt the need to watch what he said because Molly didn't make him feel like he needed to change. For some reason, which even he couldn't understand, she was enamored by him.

"Do you really mean that or are you being polite?" He asked. His eyes piercing hers. That statement made her eyebrows knit together and her face flashed with an odd emotion that Sherlock couldn't quite decipher.

"You're my friend, Sherlock. You can visit my flat whenever you like." Her tone was odd but there was a genuineness in it. That was another reason why he enjoyed Molly Hooper. Even if she was dull or frustrating at times, she was _always_ genuine. "I do prefer that you visit before midnight though. 6:30 comes rather early."

He thought of responding. But he couldn't foretell how she would react, so he did what he was rather good at. He dodged the entire topic and rested upon another topic.

"Great tea. A little cheap tasting, but quite delicious." He sounded weird. He was aware of that. He wasn't sure what was causing this awkwardness, but he was definitely the victim of it.

Molly smiled a bit, but her yawn broke her smile. Her eyes closed, as she yawned once again. If Sherlock used such words such as cute _(which he never would do_ ), he would use it to describe her yawn.

"You can thanks the years of working at the university's coffee shop." He was unaware that Molly worked at a coffee shop. What else was there to know about Molly? He realized that were so many things that he did not know about Molly. There were so many things to learn about Molly. More importantly, so many things that he _wanted_ to learn.

Sherlock didn't know what to say. **_Once again_**. Tonight he seemed to be affected by a lack of words. He wanted to respond, but he wasn't sure how to converse with this type of subject. Underneath his cleverness and narcissism was a very socially uncomfortable demeanor. Silence was _always_ his best friend. Sarcasm was his second.

He sipped his tea once again and the bizarre awkward feeling filled him again. He could ask her what her favorite color was or her musician.

But instead Sherlock reached for her telly remote and changed it some comedy channel. Molly didn't remark about it. She sipped her tea once last time then rested it on one of her cat shaped cup toasters. A few seconds later, she laid down on the couch, her head resting on a throw pillow, and watched as Sherlock sipped his tea and watched television with a bored expression.

And quickly Molly Hooper fell fast asleep while Sherlock watched intently.

 


	5. Chapter 5

_"Please mind the gap between the train and the platform."_

Molly Hooper was painfully squeezed in between two burly men as she waited impatiently for her stop. She wanted nothing more than to get off the Tube. All she wanted was to finally breathe and stretch her legs. 

She usually spent this time reading the gossip magazines that she was abashed to admit she actually read. She had been an avid reader of them since she was a little girl. It didn't help that Molly also had a very strong  _(and secret)_  infatuation with Prince Harry. Yet today she had no space to read or imagine her fictional wedding with Harry.

Today was seeming more and more icky for her. There was no doubt that she was going to be drinking quite a lot of coffee through out the day.

Her morning had been terrible. She had awoken on her couch only a mere hour ago. Her battered flannel pajamas bunched up and her hair laying wildly across her face. A stiff neck and an achey back as well; it was just a _sweet topping_ on her very miserable morning.

Not to mention that she woke up shivering because she had forgotten to higher her heat before bed. The only thing that saved her from turning into a piece of ice was the blanket that was wrapped around her.

A part of her was very confused at how she ended up curled up in the warmest blanket of hers. She had fallen asleep on the pillow and couch, and had never woken up. At first thought, she assumed it was Sherlock... but she _knew_ he would _never_ so something so sweet for anyone. If he did, it would certainly not be for mousy Molly. He would _never_ choose _her_.

As she hopped from the couch, she was distracted by a ripped piece of paper laying next to her tea mug.

**"Thank you. - SH."**

She picked it up and stared aimlessly for a few moments. She shook her head and slipped the note into her copy of "Gone with the Wind" which was her lunch break reading selection of the afternoon. It would have to stay there until she had time.

She didn't have time to over think last night or else she'd be late.  _And Molly was never late._

She had said a small thankful prayer for not waking up so late that she would have to miss a shower. If her hideous pajamas hadn't scared off Sherlock last night than the sight of an unbathed Molly with ratty and knotted hair surely would. She preferred to shower at night, so she didn't have to shower twice, but she needed to distract herself from the thoughts going through her head on a loop.

Except now she couldn't escape from thinking of last night. The only thing that interrupted her thoughts was the heavy and irking breathing of the man to her left and the train itself notifying of stops. She couldn't escape her mind and it was very frustrating.

She couldn't stop thinking of that glimpse of niceness and humanity she glimpsed in Sherlock. In the realization that them, two very lost misfits, watching telly and drinking tea was almost... _normal_. It was something Molly often dreamed about. _Was it going to be a common occurrence for Sherlock to appear now?_

Molly would like to see him more. She had found the silence very soothing. No matter how hard she tried, she always stumbled on words near him. His presence ruffled her entire being. But there was no way for her to embarrass herself while sitting in silence. It was nice.

Having someone near her was _nice_. Even if it were Sherlock Holmes, the terribly mean love of her life, who ruined her dinner and barged in at an ungodly hour.

She had always thought the best thing about love was having someone there. Someone to share smiles with, someone to laugh with, and someone to cook for. They would always be there with you, not just in your thoughts and dreams, but in their touch and laughs. It made her sound like one of those corny romance novelists, but it was how she felt.

Last night, she felt that. Two people just enjoying the silence and companionship. No chit chat... which Molly was terrible at anyways.

She slipped the note out of her note and examined it. It wasn't sweet or romantic... but it was _different_. She rarely saw him leave notes, so it wasn't commonplace. And why say thank you of all things? Why not simply say goodnight?

She knew it wasn't romantic but she felt as if he had just told her something that words couldn't convey. Maybe, _just maybe_ , he was seeing in Molly what she had been seeing him since the first day she had laid her eyes upon him.

The thought made a big smile appear on her face.

She wasn't sure if Sherlock could really be a "boyfriend". Not that she believed she'd ever belong to him suddenly. A sudden night adventure (not _that_ type of night adventure) and note didn't equate to love. Especially, when it involved Sherlock Holmes. He was the master of creating emotional turmoil. He also happened not to understand simple social cues such as not barging into people's flats after midnight.

She was okay with not being his girlfriend or him being her boyfriend. Even though she would love it more than anything. She didn't even attempt to deny this very open truth.

The image of holding onto Sherlock during cold nights or having someone to care about her thoughts was what she wanted. The fact that she could kiss Sherlock everywhere was simply a very exciting and incentive bonus.

Quickly, a blush erupted all over her cheeks.

She often didn't know what to do with all of the feelings that he caused. Not the migraine inducing, or the heartbreaking or butterflies, but the feelings that made her blush and quiver.

The most embarrassing secret of Molly Hooper's was that she was a virgin. Yes, a 28 year old _virgin_. She had almost did it once. It was during her medical school years. She had gone to a party that her flatmate at the time forced her to. She had gotten very drunk. She ended up kissing another university student who had just gotten accepted into Cambridge's English graduate school.

He lead her to an unoccupied room. They made out for almost an hour. He knew poetry and how to write and he was so handsome. Very, very, handsome. It was easy to kiss him and keep kissing him. She was having fun until he proposed that they have "some more fun if she'd like" as he got off the bed and began to undo his belt. She quickly bolted as if she were electrocuted. It was the best reply she could think of at the time.

She had taken an taxi back to her flat near campus and had sworn off parties since then. It was the wildest thing she'd ever done. She didn't drink either since then. Maybe, a glass of wine or two. But she never got drunk. She had came to the conclusion that she became far too lovable. She had seen him, a week later, and he apologized for being so forward.

But that had been years ago. Yet it still made her feel ashamed. She always wanted it to be special. She wanted it to be with someone she loved who loved her.

She imagined her tomb stone to read: _Molly Hooper, age 80, hopeless romantic who died a virgin. She also was a lover of cats and polka dots._

She refrained from rolling her eyes, as the man on her left stretched and squished her even more.

Slowly, she drifted back to her thoughts once again.

Molly had forgotten about her almost virginity loss. Well, _mostly_. It wasn't sex but it was certainly the most sexual thing that she had done in her entire life so it was significant to her. She didn't consider the awkward make out sessions with her peer Alfie during secondary school in the closet very sexual. It was terrible and always made her feel like she had chewed twigs because his braces were so painful but she wanted to practice.

But now, Molly, couldn't ignore sex. She was a woman. She wondered if Sherlock had sex. Had he ever had a woman? _Of course, he did_. He was rich, well his brother and parents were, and incredibly good looking. If he wanted, he could have women flinging themselves at him everyday. While she had to resort to mid afternoon fantasies because nobody would ever fling themselves at her. She was doomed to be a cat lady, she _knew_ it. Except maybe, not so. Maybe Sherlock and her would be something.

"Excuse me, miss?" Molly was broken out of her reverie by a man in his late 30s with dark brown hair and a light trench coat. He was carrying a brief case and an iPhone stuck out in his pocket.

"Yes?" She piqued. People never spoke to others on the Tube. You either read, wrote, slept or stared aimlessly.

"I just wanted to tell you that I find you very pretty." He smiled at her and winked. She turned deep red and put her head down. She rarely got called beautiful. She got insulted daily and reminded of why she wasn't pretty (she had never said that Sherlock was a charmer) but compliments? Never. Especially by an attractive man.

"I-uh, thank you." She stammered and avoided his eye direction. Quickly, the man walked in front of her and pulled out a piece of paper. He scribbled something on it and handed it to her. 

"This is my stop. If you ever want to have a drink, call me. I'm Charlie." He stepped back towards the exit door while typing on his iPhone in one hand. Molly couldn't help noticing how he did it so gracefully. If she tried texting and walking backwards, she'd have to call a medical team for the concussion she would surely get.

"I'm Molly." He smiled at her once again.

"The pleasure is all mine." He winked as he walked out of the doors.

She sat stunned. Her eyes widened in disbelief. Instantly the two men _(especially the fat one on her left)_ squishing her didn't matter. She was completely dazed and befuddled. To be quite honest, she was rather flattered. He, this wonderfully good looking man, found her attractive.

As she stared at the name and number scribbled in front of her, all she could think of was last night. Sherlock never came to anyone's house. Unless they were dead, of course. That didn't count however. He sat calmly then watched telly and drank tea with her. In Sherlock's world that was special.

Something Molly was always great at was deciphering Sherlock. Not him entirely, but those faint strange actions he does. Like how he created and manages thirty different emails so John believes his blog has a lot of readers or has Mrs. Hudson's favorite flowers sent to her every Thursday afternoon.

Molly sensed that his visit had an underlying meaning; her heart and intution felt that it was a good purpose. She knew it meant something. It simply had to. He had told her that he wanted to see her. He wanted to be near her. He wanted to spend his night with Molly Hooper. She wasn't quite sure what it meant, but it did mean something.

 _Maybe..._ he even covered her with the blanket like all the heroes of romance novels do.

She pulled it out to read a text from Sherlock. For once, she didn't sigh at the feel of her phone's vibration in her pocket, in dread of what Sherlock needed her for. Her heart began racing and a smile overcame her face as she clicked " _Open_ ".

**"I distracted by the folly that I forgot to ask last night but I need a Hagedorn's needle Get me one ASAP. I also need a coffee. Do not add extra sugar as you tend to do. You're obnoxiously late in comparison to your usually early schedule. Where are you? - S.H."**

She reread it, over and over again, and felt something in her twitch. There she had been on the Tube for nearly an hour thinking of him, of what could be, and here she was being the tool of his manipulation game again. She had for the first time thought that she might stand a chance with him. She thought that maybe, _just maybe_ , that after nearly two years of pining, Sherlock _finally_ saw her. He saw something pretty and sweet in her eyes. Or maybe, he just liked being near her like she did him.

But as always, she was the blunt of his viscously terrible joke.

She was originally going to throw away Charlie's number because of Sherlock, but now she decided to hold onto. Hell, she was going to call him. She would've never originally done it, especially since the Jim incident, but she found someone who thought she was pretty.

If she didn't like him than _oh well_. At least for once in her life, she could say that she tried instead of shying away.

Molly Hooper was going to be a new woman. She was going to stop endlessly pining over Sherlock and living a school girl fantasy on what _could_ be.

She was going to stop staring at her "too small" lips and "cartoon eyes". She was going to be the type of woman that she always wished she could be. No longer was Sherlock going to break her heart because he gave her false hope.

As her stop approached, Molly quickly texted back.

**"Go to hell."**


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock stared at his phone in _utter_ disbelief.

Molly Hooper did not tell him to go to hell. He simply did not believe it. He couldn't deduce her action. As always, he felt lost and confused in the confusion weavement that was her. She was furiously annoying. No matter how hard he tried, he could not understand her. He took the pencil in his hand and snapped it. _Much better_ , he thought. But he did not feel much better. He was feeling maddened and more pestered by every moment that passed.

She grew more and more tiring and confusing each passing day.

He hardly got any sleep because he had spent an hour watching her sleep. Her eyes fluttering slightly and her occasional mumbles or near quiet whimpers. She began shivering and he rummaged throughout her flat for a blanket to wrap her in.

He _even_ resisted the urge of going through Molly's things. He abided to "human decent privacy" as John often called it when Sherlock went rummaging through his things for spare socks or things for experiments despite how angry it made John.

He had gotten very little sleep after the long taxi ride home because he couldn't help but lay in his bed and _think_. He thought of her hair and the way her thin lips upturned peacefully as she slept. The way that she told him that he was _always_ welcome.

She was the only person to give him unrequited kindness. He could insult her or hurt her and yet she still forgave him.

He enjoyed knowing he could do those things and still get the small smile from her. It was a strange feeling to have someone care so much that they forgive you so easily. It sounded strange, even he was aware, but he had always longed for it. He wanted it when his parents forced him to boarding school or when his peers stared at him strangely as a child.

Sherlock was perpetually alone.

He knew he was different. He didn't do the things that other people did and he didn't always feel as they did. He didn't know how to be compassionate like John or humble like Molly.

It frightened others. In reply, he soon began becoming afraid of letting people seeing the man behind the genius. Sherlock Holmes was _indeed_ afraid of many things despite what people perceived of him. He was afraid of someone stripping away his logic, his mental shield and seeing who he hid.

The man who felt so alone amongst people that he spent his life trying to understand and decipher in hope that he would finally feel as he belonged.

The small lonely boy who wrote his parents six letters a day in hope they would save him from the wretched boarding school.

That was why Sherlock saved people.

Nobody _had ever_ saved him.

No one had ever cared besides John. But John wasn't the care he craved. There was Mrs. Hudson, too. But that wasn't he craved. They couldn't give him what he desired most of all. He _craved_ Molly. He enjoyed how tender she always was to him and the way she made her tea. The way her hips swayed as she walked and her soft giggle. The way she didn't push him to be anyone else but himself.

For some unfathomable reason, even to him, Molly Hooper seemed to be in love with him.

And _wanted_ him.

He watched intently whenever her pupils dilated which proved her attraction or the way her heartbeat rapidly increased whenever he brushed against her.

Despite himself, he often brushed against to her to receive her reaction. It wasn't just rewarding, but enticing. He often wondered what other reactions he could emit from her. It was _delightful_.

Last night was extremely delightful. To watch her sleep was strange, albeit, but nice. She had never told me to go or to leave. She was happy to see him.

Molly Hooper was the only person that Sherlock ever made happy. She made him very happy too. Not just because her tea was rather delicious (she should really teach John) or because her brown eyes glimmered whenever she saw him. Truthfully, he didn't know why.

However it was an undeniable truth that Molly Hooper made Sherlock Holmes happy in ways that he couldn't fully understand.

But now he didn't feel that rush of strange euphoria at the thought of Molly, he felt frustration and sadness.

 _What had he done?_ He racked his brain over. He had for the first time in his life tried to obey every "social rule". He had used manners, he tried to embrace chatter which he found idly boring, he didn't root through her apartments, he had done the "gentlemanly" thing of wrapping her so she wouldn't get an unbearable cold and he resisted grasping her derriere with his hands as she bent to make the tea.

Before he could calculate his steps, a familiar step of small footsteps distracted him. There _she_ was.

The cause of his madness, of his frustration, and his undeniable pleasure. Her long brown hair was laying on her shoulders in a neat braided ponytail, a black peacoat buttoned up to her neck with a bright pink scarf peeking through and a pair of ungodly fitting trousers. On her feet were her favorite oxfords that Sherlock had imagined burning in his mind many times due to how atrocious they were.

His Molly was many things, but fashionable would _never_ be one of them. Yet, he found this endearing. It made her seem genuine. It was still completely frustrating, however.

She had no coffee in her hand or the look of mesmerization that she normally wore whenever she saw Sherlock. It was a look that Sherlock looked forward to as much as when Mrs. Hudson baked pastries for him.

She simply walked passed him as if he wasn't there and began to undo her coat and scarf. She hummed as she did so.

He couldn't stand it much longer.

Especially, because as she pulled out her phone from her pocketbook, a small smile casted upon her face. A small giggle, came from her, as she typed back with speed. He had never witnessed her text. The only person she had ever texted was him.

She certainly wasn't texting him. He couldn't help but wonder to himself: t _han who she was texting?_  The question ran over and over again in his mind.

He didn't know what to say. He wanted to demand that she tell him who she was texting and demand why she had told me to go to hell. _What had happened to his quaint little Molly?_ He wanted to know who was the cause of that side smile on her face. The smile that _only_ Sherlock could cause.

Before he could deduce which words would work most to his advantage, she spoke.

"Here is your knife," she said with a sense of anger as she forced into his hand. "I am a pathologist not your assistant so I will not be fetching your coffee today, tomorrow or ever again." There was not a stammer or mutter during her speech. Her tone didn't waver. Her eyes were piercing into his with a look of disdain.

"If you want to use my lab past five than you can handle the clean up and closing because I am leaving early."

"Why?" It was the only logical or eligible reply that Sherlock could think of.

"I have a date." She said, as she walked out of the laboratory doors. He stood still until he was sure that she had walked very far away.

He raised his hand and struck it against the desk. It brought a sharp pain and it made him wince. His frustration didn't evaporate or diminish instead he grew upset. He struck it again, and watched with a stilled expression as his hand began to bleed where the chipped metal had cut him. 

Molly Hooper on a date?

This simply would not do.

_He would not have it._

Molly was _his_.

And that was how small and tiny Molly Hooper ruined the invincible Sherlock's day in just  _three_  small words.

 


	7. Chapter 6

Molly Hooper’s eyes nearly bulged as it dawned upon her that she had absolutely no idea what she was doing in Harrod’s. She never went to fancy stores like these. She never even had a reason to wear expensive dresses or high heels. The last time she had a date was with her first official boyfriend Jim… and since then, Molly, had sworn off dates.

It’s not like she had a raging social life either to warrant fancy dresses and shoes that cost more than some people’s household bills. Her life was centered around St. Bart’s… an even more accurate statement would be that Molly’s life for the past 2 years had been encircled around Sherlock Holmes.

The same Sherlock that had crushed her heart into a thousand little pieces when she realized that he had never meant anything at all, he was just manipulating as per usual. This morning was a testament that Molly Hopper would never be anything more to Sherlock Holmes but a dumb little mouse he thought that he could bend like putty. Sherlock, who Molly truly thought might be seeing her the way she saw him, was just playing with her heart as always.

It made her snap. It made her stop feeling sorry for herself. How many times had Molly Hooper felt too ugly for him? How many times had she let tears that he caused be shrugged off because he was different? No matter how many times he broke her apart, Molly found a way to forgive him.

Because… she loved him. Because she saw something in him, something ultimately good, and something worth saving.

But not anymore.

She was going to move on.

After she let Sherlock know just what she thought of him with her eloquently put text of “go to hell” - she had a go of him in the lab too. Her anger once again took over at the lab, the words spewing from her mouth, without her even realizing what was coming out. She was too angry to even think straight.  
  
She didn’t stay at St. Bart’s too see if he was still in the lab. He didn’t chase back after her after he delivered the final blow (if he even cared, as much as it hurt to admit, was very unlikely) that she had a date. Molly clocked out early telling her boss that she had a bad sudden bug.

Her boss, Dr. Percy, didn’t even think twice of telling her that she could leave immediately. Molly’s vacation days had built up last year - Sherlock always needed her so she had never a chance to take a break.

That was how Molly ended up at Harrod’s.   
  
Charlie had asked her in text message if she ever had been to eat at Alain Ducasse, to which she replied no (she had actually read about it in the newspaper before and the prices made her have heart palpitations but she rationalized it as a rare and once in a lifetime treat) but she would love to try it, which was where their date was going to be at tonight. They had a 7 o’clock reservation. He offered to pick her up from her flat but she denied saying she had too many errands to run.

She could barely contain her queasiness about going on a date with an utter stranger let alone driving in a car with one. She may have been more naive than most women of 28, but she wasn’t that foolish.  
   
“Can I help you?” A sleek shop assistant with a platinum blonde sharp bob wearing a sleek black dress and leopard printed pumps asked her. The woman had a name plate on her chest that read REBECCA.  
“Erm, I’m looking for something to wear to a dinner date… I don’t really know what’s um, acceptable, you know…” Molly fumbled with her fingers as she watched a woman who looked like a model off of VOGUE march by with 2 large Harrod’s bags on each arm. It seemed far too obvious that she didn’t fit in here. I could just go home, maybe pick up some fish and chips on the way there, slip into my pajamas and watch “The Titantic”…

“What type of date?”

“A first date… it’s at this really expensive restaurant. I don’t want anything too flashy. I don’t really know too much about these types of things, I’m a forensic pathologist so I spend my days working with corpses and rotting flesh.” Did I just really say that?

“I actually have something perfect for you.” The woman winked and motioned her to follow her. The sale clerk quickly picked off a black satin dress, a little past mid-thigh length, and handed it to Molly.

“Try this on. It’s just your size, I’m certain of it.” Molly looked suspiciously at the dress. She was usually the type to go for florals and polka dots or yellows and pinks. She liked bright colors — she thought it made up for all the dreariness she worked with daily. She thought it brightened up her patients even if they were technically dead. It was the thought that counted, after-all. A part of her wanted to say no thanks and decide to just throw something on that she had already owned. She did have a nice dress that she wore to her cousin’s wedding, but it was too short and thin for winter.

Stupid English weather.

Before she could argue herself out of it, she took a deep breathe, and nodded her head.

“Where’s the dressing room?” The woman motioned for Molly to follow her once more and lead her into a vacant dressing room.

“Here it is. When you’re done, come out. If you like it, I’ll ring you up.” Molly nodded once again at the lady. She felt a little startled as the dress closed with a loud thud.

The dressing room was luxurious. It had a large chaise, a mirror that covered all sides of the room besides the door and was thickly covered with maroon carpet. She quickly slipped off her coat and scarf and threw them across the chaise messily, next unbuttoning her cardigan and oxford shirt, and lastly her trousers.

She normally hated her reflection and tried to avoid it, but the curiosity got the better of it and she looked at herself. She took a sigh as she took in her straight hips, her small breasts and her gangly legs. She was wearing her matching bra and underwear set that she had gotten at a good sale price at Debenham’s.

Molly Hooper would never be a VOGUE model that cruised through Harrod’s as if she had designed the floor-plan in a previous life, she knew it. She knew her lips were too small, her breasts too small, her arches too high and every other flaw that Sherlock had pinpointed with harsh bluntness… but she couldn’t change it.

She was simply made this way. With a sigh of defeat, she broke away her eyes from her body and slipped herself into the dress and took a gasp of shock.

For the first time in a long time, she felt pretty. Yes, Molly Hooper who struggled with low self-esteem and an over tendency to say “erm” felt pretty.

She didn’t need Sherlock after-all, did she? But that was thought with uncertainty because for some reason the dress wasn’t quite as lovely if he couldn't see her in it… but she preferred to push that truth aside.

 


End file.
